


Get Better Soon

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Open Relationships, Overstimulation, Sickfic, Slight Pain Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Louis and El decided to open things up on tour like Zayn and Perrie had, it didn’t take long for Louis to turn to Zayn for comfort, but they always seemed to plan their encounters at least somewhat before anything happened. This -- getting hard from a <i>shoulder</i> massage -- feels too much like Louis is a post-pubescent teenager who’ll get worked up from any bit of attention to his body and it makes him want to act out, elbow Zayn away from him and make a joke of it, but he barely has the energy to breathe without coughing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Better Soon

**Author's Note:**

> So, that one time [Randominity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/randominity) pleaded with the universe for some form of H/C with orgasms because the world gave us sick!Louis on a platter, and I obliged. Hope you enjoy, bb! (My gut tells me to warn for the slightest hint of dubious consent, just to be sure. I'd rather over-warn than under-warn, after all.)

“Louis. You okay?”

Louis startles at the sound of Zayn’s groggy voice at the other end of the line.

He pulls his mobile down from his ear to doublecheck the screen. Sure enough, there’s a picture of Zayn there, his hand up to the camera, blocking most of his face yet still managing to look annoyed. Louis and him had been out to lunch that day, Louis trying to update all his iPhone contacts with corresponding photos as they waited for their paninis, but Zayn hadn’t been too keen on smiling into the lens on the count of three. (“Fuck off, Lou, I’ve got enough paps and fans shoving cameras at me without having to worry about you,” were his exact words, punctuated by a kick to Louis’ shin beneath the table.) 

Louis furrows his eyebrows, pressing the phone back to his ear. 

“You answered,” he says, all but wincing at the sound of his own voice, gravelly with mucus and seeming like someone else entirely -- a fifty-year-old chainsmoker, perhaps.

Zayn hums. He sounds sleepy. “You called, didn’t you? It’s what people do when their phones ring, they answer.”

“You _never_ answer, though. I was starting to think you didn’t even bring your mobile ‘round with you this tour.”

“Yeah, well. You’re _sick_ , so I thought maybe you were dying or summat. Seeing as that’s not the case, I’m hanging up now.”

He doesn’t hang up, though, even when the line goes quiet. Louis feels his mouth quirk up at the thought of Zayn being worried about him. He steadfastly ignores the flush that creeps up to his cheeks and bites into his bottom lip. 

“How do I sound, anyhow?” He clears his throat, trying to rid himself of the painful rasp that makes his entire throat buzz with each word. “I called my mum just now and she said it seemed I had garbled up frog legs stuck in my throat, whatever that means.”

“Graphic,” Zayn says, sounding aptly disgusted. There’s ruffling on his end, like maybe he’s sitting up in bed, followed by the click of a lamp. “You sound like hell, mate. Come over to my room, yeah? Make you a cuppa and that.”

“I can’t, Paul’ll kill me. Quarantine in full effect. M’only allowed on the phone.”

“As if you’ve never gone against Paul’s commands,” Zayn laughs. “You burnt a bloody pillow case at the last hotel, Lou. Coming over for a cup of tea is fairly low on the list of things you could do wrong.”

Louis rolls his eyes, conceding his point. “Alright, I’ll be there in a few.”

He coughs a few times into his fist after hanging up, rubbing his own chest soothingly and swallowing down against the blockage in his throat. He winces at the sharp sensation that follows -- like little knives cutting him up from the inside out. He really does feel rank, despite his best efforts to play it down and just get on with the shows, and despite lying to his mum about feeling a bit better since yesterday. He’s been lying to her about his colds, flus and fevers since he was a kid, never wanting to worry her too much when she had the girls and her job and making-things-work-with-Mark to juggle. He’s a grown lad now but his concerns are still the same; he doesn’t want his mum worrying herself over whether anyone is taking care of Louis, whether he’s getting enough rest or drinking enough fluids.

He doesn’t want the other boys to catch whatever it is he has, either, but maybe letting Zayn spoil him for a minute wouldn’t be the end of the world.

He stands from the bed, clad only in one of Harry’s oversized t-shirts and a pair of black pants. He grabs a tangled up pair of grey trackies from the ground and whooshes them in the air, straightening them out and letting the dirt and crumbs fall away before he sniffs them. His sense of smell is admittedly not what it could be, but they don’t repulse him so he pulls them on, fastening the draw strings and tying it at the waist.

He makes his way to Zayn’s and finds that Zayn has already unlocked the door, leaving the shiny golden latch pressed between the door and its frame to keep it from clicking shut. Louis steps in and pulls the latch out of the way, locking the door behind him before dragging himself into the room where Zayn is standing by the kettle.

Zayn glances over his shoulder, sensing the intrusion, and raises his eyebrows like he’s surprised by something. 

“What?” Louis asks gruffly, because he’s too worn-out to play guess-what-Malik-is-thinking. He can barely make out what _his own brain_ is doing, what with the constant pressure on his sinuses and just beneath his temples.

“Nothing,” Zayn says, “just that you look like crap.”

“Oh, thanks,” Louis nods, “always good to have your vote of confidence.”

He can’t even retort properly. Zayn is looking fresh out of the shower in his worn-in green vest and soft black trackies -- fit as ever. Louis can’t smell him, but he bets that if he could, it would be the scent of his coconut shower gel and his Head & Shoulders shampoo.

Zayn rolls his eyes but there’s a small smirk playing on his lips as he steeps Louis’ tea in a generic white hotel mug. Louis misses home. “I’m just saying, bro, you look like you haven’t shaved in a week and you’ve got a zit on your forehead.” He glances back at Louis, giving him a onceover. “You also look pale enough that I can nearly see your veins. Sit down before you conk out on me, yeah?”

Louis wants to protest and perhaps tackle Zayn to the ground for a round of wrestling, but he thinks that that could potentially be fatal to him in his current state. Even on his best days, he could never beat Zayn without some sort of unfair advantage, and today he is decidedly _not_ ahead of the game, so he takes a seat on the edge of the bed instead.

“I’m like, too woozy to even shave,” Louis says, accepting the mug of tea from Zayn gratefully and taking a sip, wincing. “I tried this morning after I took my cold meds but operating a razor when you’re dizzy seems less and less of a great idea the closer the blades get to your face.”

“I’ve got my electrical in the loo,” Zayn tells him, sitting down next to him. “I can help you out after tea, if you’d like.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, taking another sip and groaning as it goes down. He juts his bottom lip out. “I’m literally too sick for tea. Feels like rocks going down.”

Zayn brings his hand to the back of Louis’ neck, kneading the tension away, digging his palm and fingers in firmly and rotating them against the flesh. It aches sharply, like the bones are bruised black and Zayn’s applying incessant pressure to them, but it also feels good, in a way that makes Louis’ breath catch. He has to consciously hold back a moan, eyes fluttering shut.

“Have you taken anything for the sore throat?” Zayn asks quietly. “Lozenges?”

“I’ve not got anything except for the cold and sinus meds Paul gave me,” Louis chokes out. “God, don’t stop, that feels so--”

Zayn shifts up on the bed and then suddenly there’s a pressure along Louis spine, Zayn’s chest pressing along it. Both his hands are on his shoulders from behind. Louis blinks his eyes open and sees the poke of Zayn’s knees and the stretch of his thighs in black trackies at each of Louis’ sides, bracketing him. 

“Here,” Zayn says, and takes Louis’ mug of tea away, the click of it being set aside sounding a moment later.

Zayn settles back in behind him and starts to massage his shoulders again. Louis doesn’t bother holding back his moan this time, letting his head hang slightly as Zayn’s thumbs dig in, working circles into the muscle beneath. He hadn’t realized just how sore he'd been, the restlessness and stress of wondering whether or not he’d be able to perform for their fans making his muscles seize up throughout the day, keeping him from relaxing.

Zayn kisses the top of his spine and Louis whines weakly in protest. “Don’t be sappy,” Louis says.

“Don’t get hard, then,” Zayn murmurs as he settles his chin on Louis’ shoulder, a lilt of amusement in his voice.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Louis asks, feeling a rush of embarrassment flush through him, because the moment Zayn says the words is the moment Louis realizes with a panic that he is, in fact, getting hard. He looks down at his own lap and groans slightly at the sight, his cock filling out slowly in the soft confines of his grey trackies, pushing up against the fabric and stretching it out as it rises.

“S’fine, babe,” Zayn says, because it’s not the first time he’s seen Louis like this -- hell, he’s touched and tasted him quite thoroughly before, but somehow it’s different this time. 

After Louis and El decided to open things up on tour like Zayn and Perrie had, it didn’t take long for Louis to turn to Zayn for comfort, but they always seemed to plan their encounters at least somewhat before anything happened. This -- getting hard from a _shoulder_ massage -- feels too much like Louis is a post-pubescent teenager who’ll get worked up from any bit of attention to his body and it makes him want to act out, elbow Zayn away from him and make a joke of it, but he barely has the energy to breathe without coughing.

Louis’ cheeks go pink as he presses a hand over himself, pressing his erection back down admanently. “Fuck, I haven’t even been hard since I started to take my decongestants,” he mutters thinly, as if that changes anything.

“Did you take ‘em today?” Zayn asks, and he’s letting his hands fall away from Louis’ shoulders just as Louis shakes his head, pressing more firmly down and squeezing.

 _Good_ , Louis thinks. Without Zayn’s hands on him, he can bring himself down from this and make some excuse to go back to his room to take care of things on his own.

Except before he can even part his lips to say anything, Zayn wraps his arms around Louis’ middle and urges Louis’ hand away from his cock, replacing it with his own. He cups him through the fabric of his trackies, fingertips curling to press against his perineum as his palm rubs up and down the fattening length of him, eliciting a hiss out of Louis. 

“Zayn,” he breathes desperately, grabbing onto Zayn’s forearm, digging the blunt edge of his nails into it. “Enough.”

“It’s alright, relax,” Zayn says, shuffling even closer behind him, his chest snug against Louis’ back. He nuzzles the top of Louis’ spine through the sweat-thinned material of his shirt, sliding his hand up from Louis’ dick and toward his belly for just a moment, stroking him there until Louis breathing begins to even out underneath his touch. “There we go.”

Zayn uses both hands to undo the messy knot at Louis’ waistband before pressing the tips of cold, slender fingers underneath the elastic, stretching it over his knuckles as he searches out Louis’ cock, getting both his hands around it and giving it a tug. Louis shudders all over and tips his head back against Zayn’s shoulder despite himself, hips canting into his touch. Zayn kisses his shoulder. “There we go,” he repeats.

Louis loosens his hand around Zayn’s forearm, his heart rabbiting in his chest as Zayn strokes him a few times before Louis keens, tightening his hold on Zayn's arm again and tugging.

“S’dry,” he croaks. He doesn’t open his eyes at the loss of Zayn’s touch a moment later, but he hears Zayn spitting into his hand and it makes him shiver in anticipation. He blinks dazedly and forces himself to look down at his lap through half-lidded eyes, watching as Zayn uses one hand to push Louis’ trackies down enough to release his cock from its confinement, and another hand, spit-slick and smooth, to wrap around his length and start stroking in earnest.

“God, fucking... Jesus Christ,” Louis babbles breathlessly. He fights to keep his eyes open, wanting to watch the glide of Zayn’s wet hand over the hot, pink skin of his cock, the way his swollen cockhead appears and disappears underneath the push and pull of his foreskin. He nearly goes cross-eyed keeping track of the repeated motion of Zayn's fingers, whining when his prick starts to spill a stream of pre-come.

Zayn stills his hand on the upstroke in favour of thumbing over Louis’ wet, bubbling slit. He squeezes Louis’ tip in his cupped palm, gathering the warm spurts of pre-come in his hand before stroking them over Louis’ length, twisting up and down thoroughly, spreading the slick as much as he can. Just as the renewed smoothness of Zayn’s movements tears a moan out of Louis, Zayn stills his hand on the upstroke again and digs his thumbnail unkindly against Louis’ slit. Louis whites out from the shock of pain washing in with the pleasure, arching his back and very nearly elbowing Zayn in the stomach, but Zayn releases the pressure of his nail before it gets to be too much, knowing exactly how much hurt gets Louis off. Louis is still reeling, letting out a dry sob as he settles in Zayn’s arms, his ears ringing and cheeks burning up.

“Shhh,” Zayn says calmly, going back to stroking Louis from tip to base, twisting his palm over the head every few strokes for good measure. “You’re okay, Lou. C’mon, babe. Make a mess for me, yeah? Always so pretty when you make a mess.”

Louis whimpers softly at Zayn’s words, feeling vulnerable and embarrassed and unbearably turned on by the combination. He digs his nails into Zayn’s arm and lifts his hips from the bed, fucking into Zayn's hand sloppily a few times. When he can’t get the added friction he's looking for, he lets go of Zayn's arm and curls his fingers around Zayn’s on his prick instead, stroking himself in time with him, their fingers slip-sliding over his length.

“Yeah, babe,” Zayn encourages. “So hot. Show me what you like.”

Louis lets out a shaky breath, feeling Zayn's free hand slip between his thighs and then there's just the slightest pressure of a fingertip against his hole, making him clench up and release a high, broken whine of Zayn’s name, tightening their hands on him as he thrusts upwards, seeing white. He jerks his hips in tight, frantic circles, coming in spurts against his own stomach and down their fingers, embarrassed by how much spills out of him and unaware of whatever sounds he's possibly making as he thrusts through it.

Louis feels dizzy by the time he manages to settle his hips down. He slows his hand and pulls it away with a wince, fingers sticky with his own release. Zayn, however, keeps a loose grip on his overheated prick and, much to Louis' absolute horror, _tugs_. It’s entirely too soon, the pain sharp enough to make Louis cry out in protest, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but it doesn’t deter Zayn from squeezing the last drip of come out of Louis’ oversensitive cock, giving it a final few strokes before he slows his hand down, finally letting him loose.

“Fuck. _Wanker_ ,” Louis breathes, feeling like he’d just stuck wet fingers into an electric socket. Zayn smiles against his shoulder before he pulls back, pressing a kiss to the sweaty hair at the crown of his head. There are fresh, warm tear tracks on Louis’ cheeks, and when he sniffles, he’s uncertain whether it’s because he’s sick or because his senses are in overdrive. Zayn’s prick is more than half-hard against the small of Louis’ back, but Louis’s too fucked-out to even think of offering to return the favour yet.

“You’ll thank me once you’re sleeping like a baby,” Zayn says belatedly, sounding a tad too smug for Louis’ liking, and then he’s slipping away from behind him and going to the washroom. Louis feels the rush of cold from the A/C assault him once he’s alone, hitting the sheen of sweat on his skin and making him feel lightheaded. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his arm. The sink runs for a while before Zayn comes back, his own hands cleaned up, holding a wet flannel.

He grabs Louis’ hands and wipes them clean, getting in between the webs of his fingers to make sure he doesn’t miss anything. He kneels down in front of him, tugging on his shirt. “Off. Needs washing now,” he says.

Louis pulls the shirt off him obediently and throws it aside. Zayn’s careful as he cleans around Louis’ softened cock, certain not to touch it, but Louis still sucks his stomach in instinctively. Zayn glances up at him, meeting his eyes with a question in his own, and when Louis nods hesitantly Zayn dabs the wet flannel on his prick gently, cleaning it as best as he can without hurting Louis too much.

Zayn tucks Louis gingerly into his trackies and pushes to his feet when he’s done, bending to grab Louis’ shirt from the floor, throwing it in the hotel’s laundry hamper along with the dirtied flannel. He rifles through his suitcase, producing a fresh t-shirt and throwing it over to Louis. Louis thanks him as he pulls the shirt over his head.

“I want to help you out,” Louis says apologetically, eyeing Zayn’s cock for a moment, looking less stiff than it was a bit ago. “But I literally feel like I might die if I don’t just... sleep.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Zayn says. “I didn’t get you off so you could do me. Just wanted you to feel a bit better, yeah? I’d be a proper twat to make you do anything in the state you’re in.”

“I’d say ‘what a gentleman,’ but I’m pretty sure you used your bloody nail on my prick a minute ago,” Louis says.

“Whatever,” Zayn says, smirk evident in his voice as he searches for something on the counter. “You liked it, clearly. Thought I’d need a bucket with how much you came.”

“Truly unnecessarily graphic,” Louis protests, nose wrinkling.

Zayn turns back around, his mobile in hand. “Stay here, yeah? Fuck Paul’s quarantine, what you need is a cuddle.”

Louis groans and shuffles up to his knees on the bed, crawling up to the top and snuggling underneath the covers. He feels boneless, the tension in his muscles finally subsiding after days of being wound up too tight. "Don't think I could walk back to my room if Niall's life depended on it."

"Poor Niall," Zayn says with a smirk.

"Poor Niall," Louis agrees sullenly.

"Alright, m'gonna go call Perrie to help me finish this off, but I'll be back after. Don't burn any bloody pillow cases while I'm wanking."

Louis laughs tiredly, already feeling sleep settle into his bones, pulling at the fuzzy edges of his brain. "G'luck. I owe you one. Or like, ten."

"Yeah, yeah, heard it all," Zayn mutters fondly and Louis hums in response, listening to the click of the bathroom door before finally letting himself rest.


End file.
